The Scar Boys

Sitting Still

When I got back to the skate house, I found Cheyenne sitting on the back stoop. Her legs were pulled up tight against her chest and she was rocking back and forth with the precision of a metronome. She didn't say anything or even look up when I approached.

"Hey," I muttered, ready to scoot around her and retreat inside. I was still shake from my walk and phone call, and felt like maybe I should be alone. But when I passed her, I could hear that Cheyenne was crying. The sound stopped me in my tracks.

I didn't know what to do. A crying girl wasn't anything I'd encountered before. Wait, strike that. Dana Dimarco.

I was eleven years old and had been walking home across the otherwise deserted elementary school playground. Dana was there, sitting on a swing, dragging her foot in a small, slow circle on the asphalt. She was sobbing openly.

I had stayed late after school that day to avoid a bully named Jamie Cosite. He was a year younger than me and was planning to beat me up. I knew this because during playtime on the kickball field he told me, "I'm going to beat you up."

Going against my better judgement I asked him, "Why?"

"Whaddya mean why?"

"I mean why do you want to beat me up?" I had been so routinely abused by other kids that I guess on some level, I figured I had nothing to lose. 

"Because look at you." he said, his friends laughing at his oh-so-clever wit. Cosite had too many freckles and an unnaturally square jaw; he looked like a ventriloquist dummy. 

"So?"

That was all he needed. He punched me in the face right then and there, and kicked me in the shoulder as I went down. A teacher saw the commotion and walked straight over to where we were standing. 

Jamie stopped the assault when he saw her coming toward us, but managed to get in a quick, "I'll finish you after school," before the teacher's presence sent all the other kids scattering.

Miss Chardette---"Bulldog Chardette"---the warden of my sixth-grade class, stood over me. I was alone, lying there on the ground, looking up at her, silently pleading for help. She just shook her head and walked away. That was the last time I talked back to a bully.

When the last bell rang that day, going outside seemed like a bad idea, so I hid in a coat closet. This was right after Dr. Kenny had first taught me to use lists as calming devices. I began with the only one other than lightning that I'd memorized to that point: US presidents.

I ran through the lists forward and backward. I counted the even-numbered presidents, and then the odd numbered presidents. I figured out that the most common letter of the alphabet to begin president's last name was "H"---Harrison, Hayes, Harrison, Harding, and Hoover---and that the only one president's last name began with the letter "L"---Lincoln. The exercise must've worked, because I fell asleep.

When I woke up and dragged myself out of the closet, the clock on the wall of the classroom said it was four p.m. The school was deserted. That's when I went outside and found Dana Dimarco crying on the swings.

As I walked by, she looked out from underneath her copper bangs. She didn't say anything, but I know she saw me. She cast her eyes back to the ground and started crying louder. I figured I had two choices.

Choice #1: Sit down on the next swing over and ask her what was wrong. Experience taught me that would only lead to disaster. I would do something--or rather, I was something--that would make her cry harder.

Choice #2: Walk away.

I chose door number two, and I've regretted it every day of my life since. If I had talked to Dana Dimarco, maybe I would've made a friend. Truth is, she wasn't totally awful to me most of the time. I bet if I had bothered to ask her what was wrong---and I think she wanted me to ask--maybe my whole life would've been different.